


we raise the fire

by flonkertons



Series: a lightning in your eyes [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flonkertons/pseuds/flonkertons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Tell her what we have to play this year," he says, very seriously. He bows his head like he's in prayer.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Bellamy pauses for effect (he's so fucking dramatic all the time) and Clarke adds in a drumroll in her mind. "Dodgeball."</i>
</p>
<p>Clarke finds out the CHR has rivals. (Timestamp to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3556961">the pedal's down, my eyes are closed</a>, but can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we raise the fire

**Author's Note:**

> I SHOULD be working on my other WIPs but I'm really stuck with those and I needed to write something easier, which ended up being 4K about them playing dodgeball. Kinda.

She comes back from a passably civil – dare she say it, _okay_ , even – lunch with her mom to find the CHR office in an uproar. All the editorial assistants are crowded around Bellamy's desk and blocking hers, even Lincoln's migrated upstairs to join them, and Anya keeps shouting "What about _DEFENSE_?!" every few seconds.

"Guys?" She tries, but it just gets lost through the swell of voices and crowd of people. "Guys!" Still nothing. Well, fine, then. Clarke starts pushing through the group, accidentally elbowing Monroe who turns to look at her with a snarl until she sees that it's her. Clarke apologizes, knows that she has sharp elbows (Bellamy's constantly complaining about this, so it's hard to miss), and then pushes Miller aside with astonishingly little effort until she sees Bellamy scribbling furiously over one of those 11x15 sheets of paper they reserve for special things (banners for their parties, mostly).

"What the hell is going on?" She asks, puzzling over what she can see from the paper. There's just a bunch of circles, a bunch of arrows, and a few of their names. She peers around his arm and finds her name in the corner.

Bellamy looks up, blinking like he's been woken from a stupor. "Hey," he says, rising up from his chair to kiss her. Everyone else starts booing and she waves her hand in their faces. They do this every time, just because they think it's funny, but Clarke just kisses Bellamy longer and harder whenever they start that, which prompts them to boo harder. It's a vicious cycle, but she's the one who gets to kiss him, so she wins in the end.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she smiles at him and pats his cheek when he looks dazed. "How's your mom?" he asks.

"The same," she says and then gestures to their surroundings. "So what's up?"

"We got a challenge," Miller informs her, all gravity and surliness in his voice. Everyone else nods at her like Miller's just told her the answer to the universe.

"Elaborate," she demands.

"JOC has thrown down the gauntlet," Bellamy supplies, also in the same tone as Miller. What the fuck is going on.

"J...OC?" It sounds familiar, but she can't place it. Everyone sighs at her. " _What_?"

"Journal of Classics. They're our rivals and they're taboo around here," Lincoln says helpfully and she decides that Lincoln is now her best friend. No one else. At least he is nice to her when she's confused.

"Oh, them! I almost – I've heard of them before, I guess." Anya's eyes narrow at her, but Clarke thinks she saved it enough so that they will never find out that she almost accepted a position with them. Clearly from everyone's scowls at the mention of the competing journal, this is a big deal. The JOC was located on the other side of campus and Lincoln's information about it being a taboo subject around the office is evidently so true that she didn't know the CHR _had_ rivals until now.

"Right," Bellamy picks up, shooting her a suspicious look. She smiles innocently back at him. " _Somehow_ they won last year and as tradition states, they get to pick the challenge. We got the note today." He gestures to a fancy invitation tossed to the side of his desk. It's all fancy stationery paper and calligraphy and everything. Okay then.

"They fucking cheated and everyone knows it!" Monroe yells and everyone minus Clarke starts concurring with her. She just stands there, as lost as she was five minutes ago when she had stepped into the office.

"They changed the scores, I'm sure of it," Miller says passionately, shaking his head in disbelief.

"And I was talking to one of the girls at the club –" Everyone groans when Finn starts off with one of his classic 'I was with this girl' stories, but shuts up when he continues, undeterred. "– and she said that her friend said that they tried to bribe her into changing it so that Cage's score was two under par and not two over par."

"They challenged you to golf last year?" Clarke asks and everyone grimaces as they relive the memory. She wonders if they'll notice if she just slipped out of there.

"No, we did," Bellamy says regretfully, shaking his head after like that will dispel all his bad memories of the event. "It was supposed to be a good choice, but then Anya couldn't make it and she's the best –"

With awe in her voice, and also with a mental note to add this to the three facts she knows about Anya (1. Her birthday is in August. 2. She takes her coffee black. 3. She hates jelly filled donuts. And now, 4. She's a golfer, apparently.), she turns to Anya. "You're a golfer?"

"It's a hobby," she says. Clarke kinda wants to know everything about this hobby that Anya has that has apparently made her the best on the team (though she doesn't know what kind of caliber talent she's comparing her to), but Miller interrupts her before she gets to dig deeper. Miller's definitely not her best friend.

"Tell her what we have to play this year," he says, very seriously. He bows his head like he's in prayer.

Bellamy looks at the invite in disgust, then to the sheet of paper across his desk, then to everyone else around her in resigned fortitude, and finally to Clarke. She has half a mind to laugh at how dire this seems and half a mind to slap him so that he can get on with it. She does neither.

He pauses for effect (he's so fucking dramatic all the time) and Clarke adds in a drumroll in her mind. "Dodgeball."

 

"You guys are so fucking stupid," is the first thing she says after the revelation and while a few months ago, she would've shied away from statements like that, they're like a big family now and families have to be honest with each other.

"This is _serious_ shit!" Miller exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

"This goes back like ten years in our history, Clarke," Lincoln says. She still rolls her eyes. Dodgeball.

"It's time we tell you about the rivalry," Bellamy concludes, standing up and grabbing the invite and the sheet. "The conference room." Everyone starts migrating over to the conference room, which is more like an open area with a long table where they do their crossreading at, but for convenience's sake, they just refer to it as their conference room. Plus, it makes them look all official. Bellamy slings an arm around her shoulders as they bring up the rear.

"Why is it that I'm the one that's being regarded as the idiot?" He laughs, presses a kiss to her temple.

"It'll make sense once you hear the story," he answers but she really doubts it.

 

It does not make sense.

They sit her at the head of the table, Bellamy in the seat to the right of her, Lincoln to the left of her, and launch into this long, drawn out story about how ever since Bellamy's started at the Journal five years ago and Lincoln eight years ago, they've been drawn into a longstanding rivalry with the JOC, helmed by Dante Wallace, who's won some kind of prestigious award for his research before, and edited by his son, Cage Wallace, of the golf-cheating, Bellamy's annoying department colleague fame. They don't know what started it, only that they can't drop it now, because that means _they_ win, and they _can't_ win. And every summer, as the ultimate show of their rivalry, they compete in some competitive activity and the winner gets an actual trophy and bragging rights for the year. Their humiliating defeat last year left them at the mercy of the JOC, who apparently have chosen dodgeball as a strategic move to ensure their victory and the CHR's loss. It went back to four years ago when the CHR lost spectacularly in a game of dodgeball. No one is quick to offer details of this horrific game, and she has some sensitivity to their strange pain to not pursue the story.

It so doesn't make sense to her because they're making it sound like it's the end of the world if they lose again, but it might be the end of the world if she disagrees, so she pretends she gets it by nodding and reacting to pivotal parts in the story appropriately. They so owe her for this.

After they painstakingly and painfully recount this tale, Bellamy gets down to business.

"You're our wildcard, Clarke," he says bluntly, locking his hands together in front of him. "They're playing with the same team as last year so we know their strengths and weaknesses, but us, we have you this year and they don't know how you play yet."

"So," Lincoln picks up, and strangely enough, he and Bellamy make a good team. "How do you play? Should we work you into the rotation or should we work around you?"

She blinks a couple of times, tries not to let her befuddlement show. "Uh, I can throw shit. And dodge. Pretty well, I guess? I mean, I don't play it often, but I'm fast?"

Bellamy nods. Monroe takes down what she says in a little notebook. Clarke contemplates texting Raven their emergency codeword ( _effusive_ ) for when they need the other to get them out of some place.

"All right, all right," Bellamy says, sliding the sheet of paper over to her. A closer look reveals that the circles are supposed to be the dodgeballs, the arrows are the directions they should go, and everyone has their name somewhere, in position. "This is what we're working on. We need to develop some plays and some kind of strategy for the game. Then we can start practice." It's not a very detailed outline on the sheet, but they have just started it.

She's slowly nodding, resigned to the fact that she'll be participating because despite her confusion, it sounds like fun, she has a competitive side that is itching to play, and Bellamy's giving her this look like he'll be crushed if she declines. "Fine, I'll play. But you know we still have the September issue to work on, right, because if this takes a lot of time out of the schedule –"

"It'll be fine," Anya says, and ends the conversation, because once Anya reassures someone (which she doesn't do often), it's easier to accept it.

"Okay," she says, shrugging at Bellamy. He grins at her and squeezes her hand.

"Okay!" He says loudly. "First practice is tomorrow at 4:30 at the RSC. You know the rules: don't be late, dress appropriately, be ready to play."

They all start chanting some motivational cheer. She takes out her phone and types out _effusive_ and sends it.

  
  


\-----

  
  


**PRACTICE 1 (13 DAYS TO GO)**

Bellamy makes her run ten laps around the small gym as warm-up. On her eighth lap, she flips him off and yells, "I fucking hate you!" He just replies serenely, not even looking up from his clipboard, "Love you too!" By the time she finishes with her tenth lap, she decides he's sleeping on the couch tonight.

Everyone else is broken into different groups based on activity: one group (Anya, Monroe, Finn) is doing stretches, another (Miller, Lincoln, Fox, their administrative assistant, pulled in to bolster their members) is doing lunges. Bellamy is testing out the grip on the dodgeballs. He has a cap on that says COACH in bright red letters over a white background and it makes him look five years younger, but also, though she doesn't want to give him any sort of positive sentiment right now, makes him look really cute.

"Clarke, you can take a break now!" Bellamy yells and she shoots back with a "Thanks, _Coach_!" before jogging over to the sidelines and grabbing her water bottle. She could text Raven the codeword again, but Bellamy figured it out after last time and he'd know. Bellamy appears by her side a minute later.

"Nice job," he compliments and she scowls at him. "What?"

"I hate you," she says, turning her head away from him. He peers around, trying to get her to look at him. She turns farther away.

"You said not to take it easy on you!"

"You could've _eased_ me into it," she says, shoving the water bottle into his hand. He takes a drink and then caps it. "You are taking this way too seriously."

He's ready to argue against her point, but then doesn't. "Hey, hey," he says, tossing his clipboard aside, reaching around to pull her back against him in a makeshift hug. She lets him, loosens her shoulders as she lets herself fall into his embrace. "I'm sorry. I know you don't get it – no, I can tell, okay? But just tell me when I'm being a dick and I'll stop."

"I'm keeping you to that," she swears and he nods his agreement. "Also, when we win, I get to pick the thing for next year."

"What do you have in mind?" He asks warily, surveying her.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"Hey, Coach and Mrs. Coach!" Miller yells from across the room, "Stop kissing and get your asses over here!"

"Start your push ups!" Bellamy yells back lazily but Clarke starts jogging over to where the rest of the team have assembled, stopping halfway when a question pops up in her head. She waits for Bellamy to catch up.

"Do we get shirts?"

"Yes," he says.

"I'm making you wear GRIFFIN, just so you know."

"Then what are you wearing?"

"BLAKE, obviously," she says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. She's delighted when there's a faint blush on his cheeks.

  
  


\-----

  
  


**(AFTER) PRACTICE 5 (8 DAYS TO GO)**

"Somehow Monroe knows a real dodgeball team – like there are actual teams that compete professionally or something – and they handed our asses to us today." Clarke can barely feel her arms after today's practice, although maybe that has something to do with Raven propping her legs over them as they lay out on the floor in front of their TV. She wants to die and maybe take a bath to soothe her aching muscles. Mostly die, though.

"I can't believe how gung-ho you guys are about _dodgeball_ , of all things," Raven comments incredulously. _Tell me about it_ , Clarke whines in her head. Speaking is such a chore too.

Finally she musters up some strength to say, "I think it is one of those life mysteries that I will never understand. Like matrices or season 4 of _90210_."

"They should've just made them perpetual high schoolers," Raven says immediately. They've had this conversation way too much.

"It always goes to shit after that in those shows."

"They never fucking learn!"

"Are you guys talking about that show again?" Bellamy pops his head out from the kitchen where he's been making dinner for the past hour.

"Don't pretend you don't know what _that show_ is called, Blake," Raven says and he smiles mockingly at her.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Oh, looks like it's time to check on the soup," he says quickly, heading back into the kitchen. She and Raven share a look and then start laughing.

She thought that her after-practice ranting had died down earlier, but ten minutes later as Raven starts braiding her hair, after forcing her to sit up much to her displeasure and pain, she's on the subject again.

"Honestly, it's like how much more of this can we go over? We do the same shit every day and it feels like, I don't know, filler at this point."

"They do say practice makes perfect for a reason," Raven says, reaching out for her hair tie. Clarke drops it into her open palm.

"I think practice is all _BELLAMY_ knows because _BELLAMY_ is still like some goddamn dictator," Clarke says, deliberately raising her voice when she says his name so that it can hopefully travel to the kitchen.

Sure enough, a faint " _BELLAMY_ can hear you!" trickles back.

"Good!" She shouts. "It's a hint!"

  
  


\-----

  
  


**(AFTER) PRACTICE 7 (7 DAYS TO GO)**

The loud spray of the shower is _supposed_ to mask her moans as Bellamy fucks her up against the locker, but he's pressing down on her clit with just enough pressure to keep her on the edge but not enough to make her come.

With 7 days out until the game, Bellamy's been increasingly stressed, irritable, lashing out at every little thing and mistake, which is not helped out by the rest of the team acting the same way. She's not sure if he induced that or if they started it, or if it just occurred at the same time. In any case, they both need a stress reliever and it had been surprisingly easy to get him to agree.

"Bellamy," she gasps, arching against him and twisting her fingers in his hair. "Hurry up, we'll – _fuck_ – get caught –"

He lifts his head up from her breasts for a second, flashing her a smug grin as he rubs circles on her clit and she can't stifle another whimper. "Who says that's a bad thing?"

" _You_ ," she says. "I can't believe I even –" he starts kissing up the side of her neck, "– got you to agree to this."

He stops again, thrusts into her at the best angle. She knocks her head back against locker 709. "You made a compelling case," he says like a little shit. Clarke rolls her hips against him, makes him stop talking immediately. When he comes, dropping his head against her shoulder and the locker, she rocks against him, begs him not to stop, and after he rubs another few circles on her clit, he swallows any sounds from her mouth in a hard kiss.

 

After they take a shower, he tosses her the t-shirt that had arrived earlier that afternoon. It's their team shirts, with a 1 on the backs of all of them below their last names. The one that's in her hand right now says BLAKE and even though they literally _just_ fucked in the women's locker room, he still looks shy about this. Not for the first time, she feels a swell of happiness in her chest.

In the time that she tugs the shirt on over her head, he's already clad in his – well, her – team shirt. GRIFFIN stamps boldly across his back, fitting him nicely since they had opted to get his actual size for the shirt. She catches a peek of the BLAKE across her back and smiles.

  
  


\-----

  
  


**PRACTICE 9 (5 DAYS TO GO)**

Despite Anya's reassurances, it is not fine and they are super behind on the work for their September issue. Bellamy doesn't even make a fuss when he cancels the practice so that they can stay later at the office to catch up on everything that they need to do.

Miller does say it's the JOC's fault, though. Everyone agrees, even Clarke. Hey, after 8 practices, it's hard not to get sucked into the rivalry.

 

 

\-----

  
  


**(AFTER) PRACTICE 12 11 (TWO DAYS TO GO)**

Eleven practices, too many laps, and five practice games later, Bellamy dismisses everyone with a stern, "Rest well. Catch up on shit. Don't think about dodgeball until the game. Great job, everyone."

Because they had overextended themselves in preparation for the game and then lost so embarrassingly badly four years ago, no one on the team believes in practice the day before the game. Clarke is so thankful for that; she understands a little bit of the importance of the game now and definitely wants to win, but she is also looking forward to not doing anything tomorrow, except go to work and revise her dissertation draft. She's neglected that way too long.

Like always, they're the last two left in the gym, Bellamy because he likes to clean up and Clarke because she wants to help him (and also they drove here together). Once everything is settled, he hoists her gym bag on his shoulder and grabs her hand, tangling their fingers together.

"What should we do with this freedom?" She teases, bumping his shoulder.

"I kinda want to sleep," he says sheepishly and she laughs, but agrees.

  
  


\-----

  
  


**GAME DAY (JOC VS. CHR, BEST 2 OUT OF 3)**

"Your LEFT!" Anya commands, barking out the warning to Finn, who heeds it just a second too late. He's the first one out, rolling the ball in his hand to Fox before gloomily trudging to the sidelines. Clarke focuses back on the game, the first of the required two that they need to win.

Bellamy, on her right, dodges two balls coming at his head by ducking and then volleys his balls at Tsing and Emerson in succession. The one aimed at Emerson hits him but they don't have time to cheer when balls are flying at them. She nearly gets hit with one but blocks it with the ball in her hand.

"Give _UP_!" she mutters as one of their opponents dodges her ball. They needed to stop living up to the name of the game.

Fox, little as she is, ends up taking out three people in a row, and Lincoln gets Cage Wallace out of the game last with a dangerous curveball, a loud cheer erupting from their team as they win the first game.

 

After they lose the second game in a close showdown between Emerson and Cage against Miller, who doesn't avoid the ball fast enough, they regroup in the corner.

"Okay, this is it," Bellamy says, his voice authoritative but reassuring. She catches Miller's eye and they share a smirk at the sound of his speech voice. "One last game. We can do this. Protect each other when you can, always have a ball in your hand, and aim. We're better than them and they know it. They'll be running scared in just a few minutes." They all nod in agreement, murmurs of solidarity following the mini motivational speech.

Clarke decides to say something too. "Plus, remember that Stop, Dodge, and Roll was so much better than the JOC and we beat them once too!" It had been a really great victory, an earned victory that practice. "Let's do it!" They put their hands in the center and disband with a, "CHR!"

 

Team JOC is not Stop, Dodge, and Roll, but they fight to stay in in the same relentless way. If she didn't hate the JOC so much at that moment, she'd give them a lot of credit for it. But she's sweating way too much for this game and it's just her, Bellamy, and Anya left on their side versus Cage, Tsing, and Emerson, and she just wants to be done already. Anya knocks Emerson aside with a ball to the chest, leaving them outnumbered.

"Ready to lose?" Bellamy can't resist taunting and Clarke groans inwardly. A ball flies towards him and he dodges it just in time.

"I wouldn't be so certain, Blake," Cage retorts in that slimy voice that turned an already borderline negative opinion of him into definitely negative territory for Clarke. "Cockiness was your downfall last year, if I remember right."

Bellamy grits his teeth, then jerks his head at Anya, and then at Clarke. She nods subtly; that's their agreed-upon signal to form a triangle on their side: Bellamy towards the front, warily guarding himself with the two balls in his hands, Anya behind Bellamy on his right, Clarke behind him on his left. With three against two, they're in the prime spot to attack with this formation.

Lincoln from the sideline shouts, also key to the plan, shouts, "Hurry up!" and they release a ball each aimed right at Cage and Tsing, hitting Tsing on her side as she fails to bend her body out of its path, and drilling Cage right in the balls as he doubles over in pain. A whistle sounds and the rest of their team storms them, drawing them into a haphazard group hug.

Clarke can't really breathe because she's being squished between Miller and Lincoln but she can't suppress the thrill of victory.

  
  
  


"How's it feel?" Bellamy asks as he walks up beside her to stare at their trophy, proudly gleaming in the display case in the main hallway of the Journal. They had let her carry it back to the office, cooing at it in glee the whole time.

"If I say amazing, will you say I told you so?"

He pretends to look shocked and offended. "I would _never_!" he jokes, even though she knows he would never do that in a genuine way.

She pinches his side, earning a yelp from him. "It's pretty fucking amazing, okay"

"Told you so," he teases, cutting off her complaint with a quick kiss.

"Not cool."

"Pretty cool."

They stare at the trophy some more. It's a nice trophy, actually, gleaming bright and silver. She likes that they can see their reflection in the metal.

"I've decided what activity I want for next year," She asks suddenly, an idea already forming in mind. Might as well go all in now.

"What have you come up with?"

"Poker," she says easily. "No gambling involved, of course. Don't want to get in trouble."

"I think we can definitely get the team to agree to that," and they share a grin, laughing when they see themselves in the reflection of the trophy.

 

The team makes a banner that says "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" on that fancy 11x15 paper the next day. Maybe she gets the whole thing now.

 


End file.
